


Stay With Me

by Backwoulds



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Comfort Sex, Dead Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, It's not a very good bandaid, POV Second Person, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Sam Winchester, Reader-Insert, Sad, Sad Sam Winchester, Sex is a Bandaid, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-28 23:16:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Backwoulds/pseuds/Backwoulds
Summary: After Dean's death at the end of season 9,  the reader and Sam need each other to deal.Ain't grief a bitch and a half?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have plans to continue this, but I needed to at least get this far and get it published before I lost my nerve or my muse. Sam Smith's "Stay With Me" came on the radio a few days ago, and I decided I wanted to write some good ol' platonic reader-insert smut with darling Sammy (I strongly believe platonic smut is and should be a thing--FRIENDS CAN BANG WITHOUT IT MEANING ROMANCE, DANG IT!)... so stay tuned for the eventual bangin'.
> 
> I also just really like writing stories that emotionally and physically destroy the characters 'cause I've got a weird-ass god complex. Hope y'all like the sads!

He’s gone.

The desperate, aching chasm in your chest chants the phrase at you with every breath you manage: Dean is gone.

You can’t bring yourself to go into the room where Sam’s left his body.

His _body_.

Jesus Christ.

You collapse onto the floor of the bunker kitchen with a sob that wrenches the air from your lungs. You’re shaking, your fingers splayed against the wall as you grasp for purchase, scrambling to hold onto something, anything, that will keep you upright. There’s nothing there, and you simply don’t have the strength to stay up. You let your weight carry the rest of your body to the ground, burying your face in your hands and sobbing—screaming—as you wait for your voice to give out and the tears to stop coming. You don’t know where Sam is through all of this. You don’t know whether you care if he hears you. Right now, there is nothing you can do but scream and cry and throw yourself against the cold, unforgiving floor until it’s all out of you, until that horrible pain has stopped (however temporarily), and you can wrap yourself in the frigid nothingness that you know will come when you’re finally empty.

It feels like it takes hours before it ends, before you’re numb enough to wipe your cheeks on the backs of your sleeves and pull yourself up into a sitting position. In reality, it’s maybe been ten minutes. You gather yourself as best you can and sit there, staring into nothing, breathing into nothing, willing yourself into nothing.

And Dean is still gone.

You manage to focus your eyes on the kitchen island just long enough to notice the bottle of whiskey sitting conspicuously near the edge of the counter. It’s like it’s daring you to come closer and take a drink. You know what happens if you do. One drink will turn into two, then into five, and then into a second bottle. The second bottle becomes a third, and you won’t stop until you’re well past obliterated because you can’t bear the thought of being coherent enough to understand what’s happening right now. You can’t bear to keep thinking about the sound of the knife as Metatron buried it right under Dean’s ribcage. You can’t bear to hear Sammy crying against his big brother’s chest as he felt the life drain out of him. You can’t bear thinking, knowing, that the body of your friend is lying on his bed, already decaying. Decaying, because that’s what happens to dead people. Dean Winchester is dead, decomposing, and you’d do anything right now to stop yourself from knowing that fact.

You’re about to give in and down the bottle when you remember: it’s Dean’s whiskey. It stops you cold.

_It’s not like he’s coming back for it_, a voice in your head hisses. Your heart falls out of your chest. The pain is enormous. You hate yourself for thinking it. You hate the whiskey for being Dean’s. You hate Dean for being dead.

You don’t remember standing up, but the next thing you know, you’re standing next to the island and the bottle of whiskey is flying across the room. It hits the spot where you’ve just been and shatters, covering everything nearby in a fine, brown mist and a rainfall of broken glass. It feels good, righteous. Without thinking, you’re picking up everything within reach and hurling it as far away from you as you can. The kitchen immediately becomes a cacophony of shattering glass and clanging metal. It feels good, but it’s not enough. No amount of anger you take out on this kitchen is ever going to make things okay. That only infuriates you further. Finally, when the counter is clear and there’s nothing left to throw, you let out a terrifying, primal scream and slam your fist repeatedly into the metal until you realize you’ve drawn blood.

You stare down at your likely-broken hand like you can’t figure out why it’s attached to you, and it hits you that you’re literally about to lose your mind.

“Sam?” You shout, panicking. Your voice is high and reedy. It doesn’t sound like you at all. Nothing you’re doing or saying is remotely like you. You’re a stranger to yourself, trapped in a strange body that isn’t behaving right, trapped in the mind of someone whose friend is dead. It isn’t your mind—can’t be. It can’t be your mind, because your friend can’t be dead. Dean can’t be dead, and you know that.

_Dean is gone, kiddo_.

That voice in your head. That fucking voice.

You choke back another sob. Is this what it feels like to go insane?

Sam is in the room before that voice in your head can answer you.

“What—” He stops cold in the doorway when he sees what you’ve done to the kitchen. He’s about to open his mouth again when he looks past that and notices what you’ve done to your hand. It looks like his heart is breaking all over, and that kills you.

“I had…” you start, but you catch yourself before you can start to cry again. You swallow the lump that’s formed in your throat and taste it as it slides bitterly down into your stomach. When you’re a little surer of yourself, you try a second time. “I had to stop it hurting.” The words sound stupid as they hang there in the air. Sam just watches you, his nose and cheeks absolutely flaming in the dim light. Before you can stop yourself, you hear your idiotic voice whisper, “And it was Dean’s whiskey.”

Sam doesn’t even give you a chance to consider what you’ve just said before he’s wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest. Despite the throbbing in your hand, you throw your arms around his waist and are clinging to him like he’s the last sane thing left on this planet. You’re smearing your blood on his shirt, but it’s not the only blood that’s on there. He’s covered it, in Dean’s blood, and now you are too. It’s too much. This whole thing is too fucking much. And when you feel the first of Sam’s tears splash onto the top of your head, you think you’re going to lose it regardless of what you do next.

“I tried,” you hear Sam say, his voice muffled by your hair as he buries his face in it. “I tried to save him, but I couldn’t.”

You’ve never heard him like this before. Even when Lilith’s hellhounds killed Dean all those years back, it wasn’t like this. The two of you were never this broken, so completely and utterly defeated.

“I couldn’t save him.” The words are a quiet sob. His arms tighten around you and you realize he’s shaking. It’s all you can do to tighten your grip on him and hold him to you. You tilt your head back to look at him, and the look on his face is nearly the end of you.

“Sam.” The word is so quiet, you’re not even sure you’ve spoken until you watch his eyes drift to your lips.

You don’t wait for permission. You can’t. You raise yourself up on your tiptoes and press your mouth against his. He kisses you back without understanding he’s doing it, and it consumes you both so quickly you don’t even have time to think of how much your broken hand is screaming at you in protest.

You need this. Sam needs this. That’s all there is to it: raw, awful need. When he finally breaks the kiss, he’s gasping for air. He pushes you away from him gently, taking a step back as he comes back to his senses. “I’m sorry,” he starts, suddenly unable to look you in the eye. The pain in your heart twists itself back to life. “I shouldn’t have done that. I should—” He turns to leave, but you catch his arm with your good hand and force him to look at you.

“I can’t—” Your breath hitches. You’re not sure you can get the words out. Sam’s staring at you so intensely it hurts. “I can’t be alone tonight, Sam,” you press on. “Don’t make me be alone.” Your voice is starting to crack. It’s taking everything you have to get through this, and you don’t have much left. “Please, don’t make me be alone.”

Sam doesn’t move. His eyes burn into yours, his lips a thin line across his face. His expression is inscrutable, and you’re not sure what to do. You need to finish this, you think. You need to get it out, because your only other option is—

You don’t have any other option. It’s this, or nothing.

When Sam finally speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “What are you saying?”

“I need you, Sam. Please, please stay with me tonight.” Your voice barely carries to the end of your plea. Tears are starting to run down your face in spite of yourself. You search his eyes for some sign that he’s heard you, that he _hears_ you, but it’s too much. You don’t know what you’ll do if he says no.

He’s silent again. He’s gone pale.

Fuck.

“I don’t want this to be anything more than what it is, I swear.” The desperation you hear in your voice destroys you. “I just can’t be without you tonight. Please don’t make me do this without you. Please, Sam, plea—”

He captures your mouth with his before you can finish.

_Stay with me_, the voice in your head finishes for you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam and the reader hop on the good foot and do the bad thing.

The next thing you know you’re tumbling backwards onto Sam’s bed.

How the fuck did you get here?

Everything is a blur, and thank Christ it is, because you’re not sure how you’re managing to get from minute to minute… which is exactly the point of this little endeavor.

Sam Winchester. Never in a million years would you have expected this. Never would you have expecting wanting it, needing it so badly.

Grief is a bitch and a half, ain’t it?

Never mind the fact that Dean is lying dead a few rooms away from you. Never mind that Metatron is still alive, albeit locked away in Heaven’s dungeon. Never mind everything that’s happened in the past couple of hours (Jesus, has it really only been a few hours?)—hell, the past couple of years—because as long as you and Sam are together like this, none of that matters. It’s a temporary salve, you know that, but it’s the only thing standing between you and total insanity. You are going to hold on tight and never let go.

Sam’s hands slide down your back and stop at the waistband of your jeans. You feel him hesitate, then pull away from you.

“I don’t want to take advantage of this,” he murmurs, his fingers slipping under your flannel to play along the hem of your undershirt. “Of you. I don’t want this to…” he sighs, trying to think of the right words, “… screw us up.”

He’s lying on top of you, pinning you to the mattress as he talks.

_A little late for that, Sammy,_ says that voice in your head.

“No,” you respond, raising your good hand to his face and cupping his cheek. You hold his gaze. “Nothing changes.”

“Swear?” he asks expectantly. He needs this as much as you do.

“Swear,” you answer, leaning up to kiss him again. “Just tonight, Sammy, and nothing changes.” You can feel him hesitate above you.

“Sam, it’s me,” you continue, trying to reassure him. “Same me I’ve always been, same me I’ll always be. Look, if you don’t want to do this—” the words catch in your throat for a moment “—tell me now. Don’t do it because I begged you to.”

Tears are pricking at the corners of your eyes and you hate yourself just a little for it.

Fuck. You cannot emotionally blackmail him into this. You need it, sure, but that doesn’t make this right. Your hands fall away from him and you start to move him off of you.

“I’m sorry,” you start to say, but Sam holds fast.

“No, don’t be sorry. I’m sorry,” he cuts you off. “I can’t fucking think straight. I don’t know which end is up right now, and if I messed things up between us because fucking you is the only thing that can get my mind off—” _of Dean_, is the part he leaves out “—I don’t think I could come back from that.”

“I want this,” he continues. “Fuck it, I need this. I don’t want to need it this badly, but that’s all I’ve got right now. I don’t have anything else.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours again. The pain in your hand is just a distant ache. Maybe it’s not broken, you think. Maybe it’s just very, very smushed.

Then he’s peeling your shirt off of your shoulders and you forget you even have hands.

You mirror his moves almost exactly, roughly tugging his flannel down his arms until you can ball it up and throw it to the floor. It’s all too gentle, though. You don’t want gentle. You want painful. You want distracting. You want something to hurt worse than the hurt of losing Dean.

“Sam,” you mumble into his mouth.

“Mmm?” he responds, his hands now working your tank top up your torso, exposing your stomach and bra to him.

You lift your arms over your head, hardly mindful of your injury. The kiss breaks just long enough for Sam to pull your shirt all the way off and toss it to the side. “Don’t be gentle.”

His eyes snap up to meet yours, and they’ve gone dark. You see the agreement there and have just enough time to notice the change in him before Sam grabs you hungrily and all but slams his body down into yours. You moan into the motion, and he replies in kind.

He props himself up on one arm and uses the other hand to rip his own shirt from his body. He’s almost solid muscle from head to toe, not that it’s your first time seeing him without his clothes on. It’s different this time, though. Of course it is. You note things about his chest you’ve never taken the time to appreciate before, like the dips above his clavicles, and the lines running along his hips that disappear beneath his waistband. You run your fingers over him, letting the real, solid feel of him pull you deeper and deeper into what you’re doing.

He puts a hand on your chin and tilts your head up to look at him. His grip is painfully strong, almost to the point of bruising.

“Take those off,” he orders you, motioning to your jeans with his head.

He releases you from his grasp and leans back to watch you strip. The button fly takes you longer than it would if you hadn’t shattered your fingers earlier, but the added distraction is somehow good. You tug the denim down over your thighs and wriggle out of the jeans without the slightest hint of grace. You kick them over the side of the bed and lie underneath Sam in your underwear, not even sure which pair you’d managed to pull on today.

Sam’s silent as he takes in the sight of you. You feel his gaze slipping over your skin, your curves, and it sends a shiver down your spine. He takes his time with his own jeans, which surprises you. Once he’s out of them, he lets out a shaking breath. He’s having a harder time keeping it together than you thought. Before you can say anything to him about it, he’s pulling down his boxers, and then BAM. Sam Winchester is kneeling on top of you, totally naked.

He closes the gap between you, and you feel the hard length of him pressing against your stomach. His mouth finds yours as his hands wind around your back to undo your bra. You have to arch up to meet him. He pushes it off of you like he’s angry at it for being there, and then his hands are on your breasts. His palms are big enough to cover them completely. You buck your hips up to his expectantly, and he grinds himself against you in return.

It’s not enough. You still feel the stabbing pain of loss in the hollow of your chest. You squeeze your eyes shut against another threatening onslaught of tears.

_He’s still gone_, says that voice.

Without meaning to, you whimper quietly into Sam’s mouth. He pulls away long enough to make eye contact, and you see all of your pain and desperation echoed in his eyes.

“What if it’s not enough?” you manage, almost too soft for Sam to hear.

“Shut up,” he says, before reaching down and slipping his finger inside of you.

Your back arches again, this time involuntarily. You’re impossibly wet already, which makes absolutely no sense. Nothing about _any of this_ makes sense, you remind yourself. In what world are you and Sam Winchester about to fuck each other in his bedroom—in any room for that matter? In what world is Dean not around to tell you what a huge mistake you’re probably making?

But the thoughts are lost as Sam pushes a second finger inside of you, and then a third.

In spite of how good it feels, you can feel the tears streaming down the sides of your face. Maybe it’s because of how good it feels? You’d like to believe that, but you honestly don’t know, and you don’t want to know. You want the world and the thoughts and that voice to go away, and Sam’s the only thing you know can make it happen.

Your good hand moves down to grab his length where he’s resting against your stomach, and you feel his fingers falter for a moment as he adjusts to the sensation. You stroke him slowly at first, then speed up to match his pace inside of you. You’re both making small, keening sounds as you pull each other off. It would be funny under normal circumstances but, as you continue to remind yourself, nothing about this is normal.

Sam’s breathing is getting harder. “Stop, stop,” he pants, pulling his hips away as he withdraws his fingers from you. The sudden emptiness of it is shocking.

“If we don’t do this now…” he leaves the rest to your imagination as his hips twitch in example. Yeah, you get it. Fish or cut bait. Now or never.

You nod.

When he leans down to kiss you again, it’s different somehow. It’s still rooted in all the pain and doom and sadness, but it feels _real_ now. It finally feels like it’s shutting out the darkness that’s crashing down on you. It feels like there’s nothing here but you and Sam, here, in this moment. It feels the way it’s supposed to feel.

The tears are drying on your cheeks when you feel Sam reach down to position himself at your entrance. You draw in a slow breath and meet his eyes. He’s staring the question down at you, and even though you know how to answer, it still takes you a minute to respond.

“Stay with me, Sam.”

He sinks into you as soon as you say it, and you gasp and moan simultaneously. You’re both breathing heavily into the silence of the room. Neither of you moves. You just need to feel each other, to focus on the reality of the situation. He fills you completely, and you can’t help but clench your walls around him. He makes a noise that falls in that sweet spot between vulgar and obscene, and that’s all you need to get yourself going.

You roll your hips back and snap them up to meet his, drawing him in and out of you with an exquisite precision, then do it again and again until he’s able to catch up. He’s making sounds you’ve only ever heard muffled through shared motel room walls before. This, THIS is what you needed, what you both need. This is what is going to get you through tonight. This is what’s going to save you both.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s muttering, showering your neck and shoulders with hard, painful kisses. You feel the edge of your orgasm with every thrust.

“Fuck, Sam,” you gasp, throwing your arms around his shoulders as he pounds into you. Your good hand finds its way into his hair and pulls. He almost growls in response and increases his pace. Your bad hand, meanwhile, shrieks in agony. The combination is terrible, and somehow perfect. It’s bringing you closer to the inevitable.

“I’m close.” You press your mouth against his ear as you say it and feel him shudder.

“Me too,” he answers, never slowing down for a second. “Fuck, kid, I’m so close.”

You don’t want it to stop. You don’t know what happens when this is over—that _terrifies_ you—but you also know you’re too far gone to pull back now. You and Sam both are.

Without warning, Sam slips a hand between the two of you and finds your clit. The noise that escapes your throat is barely human. You should be embarrassed, but it’s way too late for that. Even if Sam weren’t so good at this, it’s exactly what you need right now. You’re right at the edge of oblivion, just one push away from falling deeply, endlessly into the chasm of your climax.

You hear the sound of someone breathlessly repeating Sam’s name over and over, and it takes you a minute to realize it’s you. His own breathing is speeding up. He’s almost there, but he wants to see you fall apart first. Fuck, it’s everything. It’s nothing. _You_ are everything and nothing.

Sam’s voice is in your ear—

“Come for me.”

—and that does it.

You come harder than you have maybe in your entire life. It both hurts and it doesn’t. You think you scream, but you can’t hear anything other than your own heart pounding in your ears.

Seconds behind you, Sam lets go himself. His hips slam into yours a final time and stay there as he comes, riding out his orgasm with a shiver that courses through his entire body. He twitches a few more times and then is still, panting, sweating, and collapsing his entire weight on top of you.

You can’t help it. You burst into tears and bury your face in Sam’s hair. He’s silent as he holds you, rocking you gently as you sob in the afterglow.

The voice in your head is quiet now.


	3. EPILOGUE

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed slipping your shirt back on. Sam is sitting opposite you on the other side doing the same. You’re both quiet. You’ve both finally stopped crying.

“You okay?” his voice sounds so far away. It brings you back to yourself.

You nod, buttoning your fly once you’ve pulled your shirt back over your hips. “Yeah. You?” You turn to face him. He nods in response.

“I’m good.”

His hand falls on yours from across the mattress and he strokes the length of it with his thumb.

“Thank you,” he says.

You smile. “Don’t mention it.” He actually laughs.

A commotion from down the hall startles you both out of your reverie and you’re on your feet instantaneously, staring at the bedroom door.

“Did you…” you start, shifting your gaze from the door back to Sam.

“Dean.”

You’re both running into the hallway without even knowing which of you opened the door. Your heart is thudding furiously in your chest.

It’s impossible, you think. He was dead. We both saw it. We both felt it. He was dead, and there’s no way he’s coming back. That was the point of all this, wasn’t it?

You risk a glance at Sam’s face and can tell he’s thinking the exact same thing.

You reach Dean’s room and the door is wide open.

The door is wide open.

The door is wide open, and there’s no one inside.

You and Sam gape at the emptiness.

“What the fuck?”


End file.
